


Never Long Enough

by Rori_Teagan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-09 23:55:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3268994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rori_Teagan/pseuds/Rori_Teagan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter is an adult with adult feelings and adult wants. Which is why he's consulting a self-help love manual to win the affections of Severus Snape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Long Enough

~~Three years she grew in sun and shower

Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower

On earth was never sown

This Child I to myself will take"~~

 

 

Two years since Voldemort. Two years since the last battle, which wasn't so much a battle as a skirmish. Not so dramatic as conclusive. Weak denouement to a vibrant climax. Two years...and now the looks were slowly changing from pity into annoyance. Now the comments were shifting, just that subtly, from 'that poor boy' to a dry 'that poor boy'. And he didn't care, couldn't. Two years since he had last breathed.

 

Of course, that wasn't to be taken literally. In the purely literal sense he breathed just fine. He breathed, he slept, he ate, he worked, he lived. He functioned.

 

He functioned. He still functioned. Why couldn't that be enough?

 

 

They asked for too much, that's what the problem was. They asked for too much, when they had no right, when they were the ones who said, "I'm sorry to have to inform you..." and "There was nothing we could do..." and "it was fast, they didn't suffer" and "Harry, he's gone," and "Harry, she passed away early this morning," and "Harry, I'm so sorry."

 

I'm so sorry.

 

Harry slid into his seat at the very edge of Gryffindor table. He couldn't sit in the middle anymore, surrounded by memories of previous evening meals, other breakfasts. Heads rose from quiet contemplation over half‑filled plates or private conversations to glance at him briefly, acknowledge him briefly, then it was back to pretending all was normal. Back to ignoring his existence. He couldn't blame them, he was their middle seat at Gryffindor table, he was a tangible reminder of...

 

He couldn't blame them.

 

It all happened at once, and somehow he thought that made all the difference. Voldemort came back with a vengeance, painfully and bluntly done with private rendezvous, still raging from his last humiliation and Harry never regretted an audience more. The night Voldemort stole his blood was the beginning of his true education, for he was to learn how far someone would go for the sake of a bruised ego. After Hermione was taken came the barrage of maybes. Maybe if...the other Death‑Eaters hadn't been around when they dueled...maybe he wouldn't have had quite that fierce of a vendetta against him. Maybe...

 

He often wondered how it would have turned out should he have died there that night. Maybe things would have been better.

 

Harry took meat onto his plate, dug into a half‑broccoli half‑asparagus looking green vegetable concoction, and dripped a thick creamy off‑white sauce over the whole mess.

"Where are the rolls?" The question was directed mostly towards himself, gaze lingering on plate, spoken so low as to be nearly inaudible and the sound of his voice shocked him like it always did lately, rough, low, it was a stranger's.

 

Neville Longbottom looked up at the inquiry, gave him an apologetic smile, and lifted his shoulders in a tiny shrug. "Sorry, no one knew if you'd show today," he said, "they're all gone. There's some muffins though, chocolate chip." Hard to believe only two months later a fatal car accident would steal Neville away. Just another victim of the Ministry’s new plan to merge wizard and muggle culture. There would be more. So much pain, so quickly.

 

A plate was pushed in front of him with the confection, only three left. Harry took one and lifted it to his mouth, bit off a chunk and had to force himself to swallow.

 

It tasted bad; too sweet rot lodging thickly in a solid wet lump in the back of his throat and scratching at the roof of his mouth. He couldn't eat chocolate without tasting dirt and grime, cold blood filling his nose and mouth in metallic waves. It was an effort to swallow but he did. Neville turned away quickly with a last tentative, maybe even appreciative, smile; he understood what it cost Harry to take that much. For the first few months everything was an effort to swallow. Pastries, pastas, salads, meats, vegetables, poultry, air, tears, the cool fine‑print of ever after. Now it was just chocolate. No. Now he could blame it on just chocolate.  

 

He looked up, eyes automatically focusing on the staff table, drifted over each member in turn. New faces sat there replacing old positions, visible reminder of all that was gone. Enough time had passed that no empty seats were left for that job, yet the filled ones were equally efficient. Finally, finally he settled on the stern countenance of Severus Snape. Still disgruntled Potions master, still regarding the room with a displeased scowl, still glaring piercingly with cold black eyes, still here. Something inside eased.

  

‑‑‑

 

Harry woke up abruptly, from deep sleep to full awareness in an instant, eyes snapping open far too quickly to adjust to the sudden piercing beam of morning light.

 

He sighed to himself and scrubbed at them, relaxing tense muscles back into the soft comfort of his bed. He'd had the dream again, the one which was part remembrance part...Well, honestly, he wasn't sure what else it was part of. The dream always ended with Snape, sometimes began with him, usually centered around him. It wasn't erotic, it wasn't sexual, it wasn't sensual, except that...it was.

 

If Harry wasn't already used to so many odd things happening to him ‑ really, who ever heard of talking hats choosing your life course ‑ he would have, well...again, he didn't know what he would have done. But certainly he wouldn't have taken the dreams quite so...calmly. He wouldn't be relaxing in bed and idly considering the ramifications of Snape seduction without that background in the strange and unexplainable.

 

Of course, it wasn't always like this; there was once a time when the thought of seducing Snape would have left him hysterical with laughter, violently revolted, or blankly bemused. It felt like a lifetime ago. Anything other than those three reactions would definitely never have been a possibility lacking his early education, without the numbing acceptance he learned to embrace by the age of twelve. The wizarding world was good for things many and varied.

 

Which was all a run‑about way of getting back to the dream. The dream.

 

The remembering part occurred a month after the last body turned up, a month after Voldemort lost all followers and was finally laid to rest, a month after the last battle. He remembered that day well. It was a particularly low point in his life, even considering the many low points he had to undergo to get there. He was on the verge of something...large, some decision irreversible, nothing quite so dramatic as suicide but perhaps disappearing for...ever, and then he looked up to Snape's brilliantly consistent face and things were not so bad anymore.

 

A month after the last battle. Harry had to snort at that, 'battle' was being kind, it shot you visions of noble soldiers fighting for noble ideals in a noble manner. The truth was it was only the end of a massacre, that's all it was. Death to end death.

 

 

By the middle of Harry's fifth year hardly a week would go by without a corpse surfacing, someone else the victim of Voldemort's indiscriminate anger. He killed for killing's sake. He murdered and tortured simply to murder and torture. Wizard, Muggle, Muggle‑born, pure‑blood, it made no difference who. Supporters or not. He killed because he could, making up for lost time, perhaps. Fourteen years is a long time to go without a body.

The deaths got so bad, so quickly, that it wasn't long before even Draco Malfoy fell silent. For a while no one knew who would be next, no one. Not even Voldemort sympathizers were safe.

 

No one could be protected. Nothing could be done.

 

After Hermione was taken, kidnapped while staying with the Weasleys the last few days before school began, nothing seemed right. She was kept longer than any of the others, most likely because of her close relationship with Harry. So long that when her body was finally discovered, mutilated and nearly unrecognizable it was almost a relief. Finally there was a name for their grief, a conclusion to the wondering, finally they could cry without feeling betrayers.

 

Ron turned sullen, morose, moody. He erupted in violence with the least provocation, spoke to no one, especially not Harry, disappeared for days at a time. Eventually he dropped out of Hogwarts altogether, took to the bottle. He blamed himself‑‑ not fast enough, not good enough, not brave enough, but really just not able to protect her. He blamed Harry ‑ just because...it made things easier if there was someone to blame. He pulled away from everyone.

 

Ron Weasley, with the bright smile and untapped talent turned into a bitter, disillusioned sixteen‑year‑old alcoholic with few options in the magical world and even less in the Muggle. He committed suicide at twenty‑two and no one was surprised. If he hated Voldemort for nothing else, he'd hate him for that. The lack of surprise.

 

After Hermione died, and Ron was essentially ripped away from him, Harry was alone.

 

It wasn't a new experience, he had been largely alone most of his life, but for some reason it was more...final now. He was sixteen years of age and everyone he loved was, in one way or another, gone. Even Sirius was still on the run.

 

The night everything ended Harry broke into Dumbledore's office, half mad with grief and that particular version of helplessness that resulted in rage, and stole each and every death threat, each taunt, each maliciously written letter Voldemort sent in mockery on a daily basis. Some were addressed to him, others to no one in particular, still others to members of the Order, Dumbledore's Order. A not so subtle brag of the extent of his knowledge.

 

Harry took his booty and stumbled out to the Quidditch pitch, dumped them on the ground...and stood over the mound, shaking with rage. He couldn't focus enough to direct his wand, his legs wouldn't obey him in the search for matches, couldn't think beyond 'this was all his fault'. All his fault, so he should be able to fix it.

 

Logically he knew Cedric wasn't his fault, he had only done what Cedric himself would have...had done. Neither of them knew what awaited them on the other side. Logically he knew Cedric's death had little to do with him save for a case of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Ron and Hermione...they were his fault. They were his responsibility.

He should be able to fix this, he had to.

 

The pile of papers burst into flames. For a moment Harry thought he had done it, a wave of unintentional magic bursting from him like before Hogwarts, and then he turned to see Draco Malfoy standing there, wand still out.

 

Harry looked at him and then without a word he shoved more literature onto the burning mound. They would never like each other, but in that moment they knew what it meant to respect each other. The next morning Malfoy was withdrawn from school and shipped out of the country. The last Harry heard he had graduated from an Australian institution.

 

So many things changed that year, connecting for an instant with Malfoy should have been the least consequential but in a strange way, this new view of Malfoy as something more than just a two-dimensional character opened his eyes to others, other realizations other wonderings. Wondering about Snape, what would make such a proud man bow before Voldemort. What would have him forfeit his life to Dumbledore for over twenty years doing something everyone knew he had no love for.

 

Through it all the man was there, somewhere in the background, somewhere in the foreground, just there. He was an integral part of the Order of the Phoenix, a defense group Dumbledore reorganized end of Harry's fourth year, and reimplemented through all the terror of his fifth. He never returned to spy, but his experiences as a former Death Eater were invaluable. When it was finally all over before second term of Harry's fifth year, it was his help that indisputably kept them all sane. His own unflagging brand of cynical optimism. Harry never worked with him‑‑ never officially worked with any of the members of the Order despite Sirius' support‑‑ still it was Snape that was the most comfort during that horrible time, Snape that made him feel most at ease, most safe, and Snape...

 

Who found him the night he slit Voldemort's throat, Peter Pettigrew crowing in the background clutching the abandoned knife he had supplied Harry with moments before port‑keying him in. It was Snape who knew where to look for him, knew exactly what he was up to, and then came after him.

 

The dream Harry had‑‑ that was part remembrance part other‑‑ on a semi‑regular basis was the culmination of all these feelings.

 

Which was maybe why it was so hard to explain.

 

‑‑‑

 

The dream was a nice way of summing up a lot of emotions, but it left out many critical ones as well. The day Harry knew for sure he loved Severus Snape, for one. He never dreamed of that, though he thought of it often.

 

Though it began like any other, it was far from ordinary. The first anniversary of Ron's suicide.

 

Harry'd grown closer to the Hogwarts staff after the war. Once Voldemort was gone, most of his supporters voluntarily abandoning him beforehand and the rest disbanding fairly quickly after, there was no further reason for him to remain with the Dursleys. He moved into Hogwarts during the summer, relaxing, helping the staff, learning,...healing. Once he graduated and moved in with Sirius on a permanent basis, once Sirius was ready to take him in ‑ the man had his own wounds to heal, ones that required a solitude raising a teenage boy couldn't provide ‑ Harry made it a point to stay close and returned at least once a year.

  

 

He grew especially close to Professor Sprout, perhaps subconsciously filling Neville's place, and spent a large quantity of his time in the garden with her, planting and weeding, talking, enjoying a comfortable silence.

 

She invited him to lunch that day of all horrible days, and requested his help with repotting, knowing the relief physical labor could provide against an onslaught of memories. Harry accepted gratefully and for a large part it worked.

 

Only, when the memories did come they hit hard, giving him no warning and leaving him no protection. And she didn't count on him finding the one plant he'd give the world to never see again, she couldn't even have known he felt that way.

 

He wasn't going to cry, he told himself knowing it was useless. He wasn't going to cry. He wasn't. He concentrated on the chant so hard that he missed when it was too late, when tears were already sliding down his cheeks.

 

_"Devil's Snare, Devil's Snare... what did Professor Sprout say? ‑ it likes the dark and the damp"_

_"So light a fire!" Harry choked._

_"Yes ‑ of course ‑ but there's no wood!" Hermione cried, wringing her hands._

_"HAVE YOU GONE MAD?" Ron bellowed. "ARE YOU A WITCH OR NOT?"_

 

Snape found him standing stiffly in the middle of a bed of rutabaga shoots, tears running thickly down his pale cheeks and staring fixedly at the baby Devil's Snare that reached for him.  

 

Harry quickly turned away, ducked his head, attempting to hide his face behind the accumulated length of newly grown hair.

 

Bending down and deftly cutting a few sprigs off something that resembled parsley, Snape kept his eyes on his task, aimed his voice at Harry.

 

"Surviving is not a betrayal, Mr. Potter. Enough of this self‑sacrificing martyr nonsense. I've better things to do with my time than watch you mope. We all did what we could knowing the risks, what happened, as they say... happened. It has been said, Mr. Potter, that 'life is not fair, it's just fairer than death'"

 

And there it was. The numbness, faithful friend returned. Snape said only what Dumbledore, McGonnagal, Sirius...had said so many times before, in kinder terms, and yet it was only now he could begin to believe it, begin to forgive himself. Only then, with Snape' permission. It was horribly ironic, in a revolting sort of way. Because it was also then Harry knew he loved him. It was the first thing in a long long time that truly felt right.

 

Still, even then, months passed, four exactly, before Harry realized his love for Snape was neither familial, friendly, nor platonic...at all. It was smattered with a healthy dose of lust. Which was...wow. No.

 

 

Love was one thing. Lust was something else and this time he was shocked. Another two months glided by before he would even consider the idea while stone sober and wide awake. Loving Severus Snape and being in love with Severus Snape were two distinctly different things, and fuck it all why did the man have to be gay? Dumbledore had helpfully provided that little tidbit of information in Harry’s sixth year when Harry’s own orientation was coming into question.

It wouldn't be such a temptation if he weren't. So thrillingly possible, even if in reality it was anything but. Bad enough to love him, now to want him? No.

 

But Harry found himself staring at Snape longer and harder than usual, imagining things best not imagined in public. The man was attractive in a dark brooding way, impressive, imposing. The long lines of his straight‑backed physique with that smooth proud gait, not so much walking as gliding, cutting through the air as if he commanded it. Harry wanted it molded around him, holding him. His hair...well, yes, his hair had to be avoided. Not too much good could be said about it, except that...well, he certainly had some. But perhaps with the right shampoo, one that cut grease as well as dirt, and a new style...which was to say a style, it had potential. The rest of him though...Oh, the rest of him.

 

Harry would shiver with want, a full‑body shudder rippling through him.

 

He wanted it..., everything 'it' encompassed, like nothing else. Wanted Snape's mouth, and his hands, and his thighs and hips and stomach. Wanted his lips, hot and open on Harry's own. Wanted his eyes to look back at him with such intense awareness, wanted his tongue to caress him from neck to chest. Wanted...God, wanted his cock, just anywhere. Wanted to hold it, and touch it and even...even, oh especially, have it in his mouth. And between one thing and another, it was four more years before his equal parts of love and lust for Snape manifested themselves into a desire for completion. Harry wanted him, wanted to be with him, wanted more than just the one‑sided feelings and at twenty‑three years of age he was now ready for that more. How he was ready, even just thinking of it now, of how he wanted to wrap his lips around it. Feel its heavy warmth in his palm while slowly licking from shaft to tip. Tongue sliding along the thick pulsing vein that quivered up the underside, feeling Snape's heart throb through his cock. Caressing and rolling it across hungry lips, tasting Snape's musky scent, feeling...

 

"Are you alright, Harry?"

 

Harry jumped, face flushed badly. "I'm...I'm...fine, thanks," he stuttered.

 

Autumn found him back at Hogwarts again, a little later than his usual visit but Sirius had wanted to tag along this time and hadn't been able to get away any sooner.

 

No. That wasn't the real reason, Harry could have just as easily went ahead earlier and waited for Sirius to catch up. Truth was he was just a little afraid this year. Anticipation washed through him with every breath, want and need like an itch, like a mild acid burning its way through his veins. Twelve weeks ago he'd done something horribly stupid, or daringly wise depending upon the outcome, and now he'd find out how it worked out.

 

McGonagall nodded a little, just a tiny inclination of her head, and offered a smile that was a little too knowing. He wondered if mind‑reading was a learnable art, and if she'd been taking lessons from Dumbledore.  

 

 

Twelve weeks ago he'd taken Trelawney's advice‑it was a moment of desperation, nothing short of tragic desperation could have made him otherwise.

 

He hadn't a clue how to go about getting Snape ‑‑how exactly does one seduce a Snape? A Severus Snape, a creature unlike any other‑and she'd been bragging again on her success with suitors, her superior powers of seduction, her 'otherworldly' ability to find and catch a mate. She'd found a mentor and she'd been eager to share her success. Harry couldn't completely dismiss her, the woman was working on her fourth marriage and from all appearances her newest acquisition was floating in a never‑ending state of bliss.

Should she have bragged over her ability to keep her husbands, well...that would've been another issue entirely.

 

He was desperate, that was the only excuse.

 

Harry was done torturing himself. At worse he'd remain right here, admiring Snape from afar with no hopes of ever getting closer...

At best...well at best, Trelawney would have been right for only the third time in her life.

 

So he'd smiled a little warily when Trelawney hovered over him with her eyes half‑shut, the long hem of her robe sweeping the floor and her hands lost somewhere beneath the many sheaths of material she called sleeves.

 

He'd allowed her to shove a book into his hands with minimal protest, not that Trelawney ever heard protests and he didn't roll his eyes when she'd winked with exaggerated care, fly‑away hair tossing airily around her head.

 

"There's a special section in the back," she imparted wisely, "you might be interested."

 

'What could it hurt, really?'

 

"How to attain the unattainable," Harry had read, "winning the heart of your emotionally unavailable dream man."

 

It was foolish desperation. And now it was too late to take back.

 

***+++***

 

_So you're in love. You've found that special someone with whom you'd like to spend the rest of your life. Your dream man has appeared and even his faults are appealing. Good for you! Only...there's a problem, isn't there? Your dream man hasn't exactly noticed you, has he? No fears! Celia Deal is here for you! Just follow these simple common sense rules and the love of your life will be just as mad for you as you are for him._

_Get a paper and pad out lovers, we're on our way to a new love filled life._

 

 

***+++***

 

On a normal content day Severus Snape had exactly two moods: dour annoyance and peeved irritation. He was happy with his two moods; they were easily maintained, always faithful, and designed so as unlikely to be interrupted by a sudden smattering of foul news. They served him well, had been doing since his eighth birthday, but lately...lately they weren't sufficient. They weren't enough.

 

Where once he found his own company more than sufficient, he now increasingly had to stop a knee from shaking nervously, fingers from drumming against any available surface, his volatile temper erupted more frequently into volcanic‑‑‑ his own company was driving him crazy.

 

Snape'd spent more than half his life living in the shadow of an all‑consuming evil, the threat of and the actual presence of were both the same when there was no relief in sight. He filled up his time playing protector, teacher, soldier, spy, everything all in one. He became what was needed during the war for the war. He'd been so many things in his life, doing so many things, adjusting himself to war, all the time wanting only peace, only a quiet solitude he was never allowed.

 

And now, now that it was all over, now that the threat was gone, now that he finally had peace...he hadn't a clue what to do with it. Quite frankly he was bored with himself.

 

The days were too quiet, even with the rambunctious chatter and foolhardy games of the children. The nights were too long, even though he could now sleep through them without fear, without startling awake during the early hours just knowing someone was in his chambers, watching him. The in‑between times were too complacent, too in‑between. And he was...the man who prided himself on his independence, his ability to survive alone, he was lonely. Bored stiff and lonely inside, empty for something he'd been without for too many years to count, aching with it.

 

Which possibly explained why he didn't put up much of a fight when Albus finally put his foot down and, rather forcefully, suggested a vacation. Well, no, a leave of absence.

Normal summers were spent at Hogwarts preparing for the school year, this one was spent in a log cabin kept by his family off the coast of Greenland.

 

Not a bad suggestion all around, if not for Greenland being such a desolate country‑side and Severus being the last remaining Snape, and thus the sum whole of his family.

 

As bad as it was at the castle, it was infinitely worse at the cabin.

He realized hermitage was not for him when a series of improvised games revealed his name was made of the two non‑words 'Neaper Vessus'.

 

So it was, when the owls came, he alternately was thrilled and annoyed. It had been a long time since intrigue, pranks or not. Given the personal nature of the 'gifts' it could be nothing but a prank. He thought at first.

 

 

Then he tried to trace their source and met dead‑block. Worry eclipsed thrilled annoyance. Only extremely powerful wizards, or witches in this p.c. world, could produce the necessary power to conceal the source of an owling. Who in that position would waste time on a fake wooing?

 

First came the flowers. Not many of the things, thankfully, but just enough to aggravate his delicately balanced atmosphere, pollute it with pollen and foreign matter, subject him to the nuisance of tidying up after fallen petals. They were immediately and quickly locked in air‑tight disposable chambers and discarded.

 

Next came the chocolates, elaborately crafted sweets of various flavors. Sugar coated dates, rum flavoured Swiss chocolates, finely detailed Godiva. Snape examined each piece carefully for poisonous substances, but alas he could not find even the smallest of trace amounts. Crafty bastards. The sweets were taken care of in a similar fashion as the flowers, discarded in a manner that was rapidly becoming familiar, and Snape settled down to brood. His enemies knew no bounds. They were the worst type with absolutely no sense of pride, honor, or decency. Bugger it all, they were good.

 

Severus politely wrote back once his desire for them to stop. “Cease and desist with these paltry shows of juvenile obsession immediately,” and as an afterthought, “please.”

 

They didn’t listen.

 

Five weeks of this. No notes, no clue as to what they expected of him except for that bone‑chilling 'From your secret admirer' scrawled on an otherwise empty note‑card, no hint at who was torturing him so. Five weeks, and then...then things got ugly, the worst and most humiliating parry came in the form of a house‑elf and a singing telegram. It was only then he began to suspect worse foul play than attempted assassination was afoot.  

 

But what exactly?

 

What did they want?

 

The sixth week of deliveries came, exactly twelve weeks after the first owl arrived with a bouquet of flowers, and Snape was feeling panic begin to set in. This time it was a book of stationery, with the emblem of Salazar Slytherin etched on each page.

 

Before the smoke from an alarmed ‑ but still steady‑ Incendio cleared, he was Halfway back to Hogwarts.  

 

‑‑‑

 

"Albus, I'm being stalked," were the first words out of Severus' mouth upon setting foot on Hogwart's soil. Well...Apparating as close as he could and then marching determinedly to the Headmaster's office. They were also, coincidently, the first spoken words to another human being in twelve weeks.

 

"Why, hello, Severus," Dumbledore greeted. "It is nice to see you again, my boy. Enjoy yourself, I hope? Lemon drop?"

 

 

"You're not listening, Albus. I'm being stalked."

 

"How interesting. Are you sure you wouldn't like one? They're fresh."

 

Severus shifted and crossed his arms. "No, I would not like one. I am being stalked, Headmaster, and I'd appreciate it if you'd take it seriously."

 

Dumbledore dropped the proffered candy back into its dish lightly, his expression clearly saying 'it's your loss.' "Those love notes again, the ones you wrote about?"

 

"Yes, but they're hardly love notes. No, something far more sinister."

 

"You worry too much, Severus. Now about that extra course I was speaking to you... Severus, please do sit down."

 

Snape sat. It was obvious he'd get no help from this route, at least Hogwarts was safe. He'd simply have to find, and kill, the stalker himself. This could be a good thing, Dumbledore would most likely want him to spare the culprit's life. Without Dumbledore's interference Snape could do as he liked. Perfect.

 

Nothing accomplished, yet in a calmer, if more annoyed, condition Snape exited Dumbledore’s office. And was immediately accosted by Harry Potter, of all people. He side‑stepped the boy and continued on his way without a glance in Potter's direction. Fuming silently to himself. Yes, he'd heard Potter was back again. The incessantly overly sentimental child‑‑ each year without fail he returned like a nasty seasonal cold to plague the halls of Hogwarts once again. No career, no significant other, no life beyond Hogwarts to speak of, Severus would have found it ...sad, if Snape were a pitying man. As it was, Potter's yearly migration was just annoying. After a total combined fourteen years of horror (counting both generations of Potter spawn), you'd think he'd be allowed the reprieve of a Potter‑free life, a Potter‑free year. He didn't ask for much.

 

"Professor!"

 

Snape whirled around, a deep grimace fighting a scowl for dominance. A Potter‑free minute for the love of ‑‑‑ Was he so thick to assume not replying was encouragement?

 

"Potter."

 

"I haven't seen you in so long, how have you been?"

 

Snape raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest.

 

A sheepish smile formed itself on Potter's lips and he ducked his head slightly. "Yes, well...anyway, I was wondering if you'd join me for supper? I've‑‑‑"

 

 

"And why would I want to subject myself to that, Potter? I left my masochistic days behind me with the Death Eaters."

 

The boy blushed fire‑cherry red, but his gaze didn't waver. "It's just that Dumbledore's plan will require us to work together anyway and I just thought it would be good if we ...met on neutral ground. Maybe we could talk out the finer details tonight over dinner."

 

Dumbledore's plan. Dumbledore's mission to supply Snape with a constant variety of increasingly creative reasons to remain miserable was back on track; now the man wanted him to work with the other staff members to form a new course of practical magic: more in depth than dueling, more involved and intensive than their regular courses. But he hadn't known Potter would be taking part. The glare grew to incorporate a clenched jaw.

 

"Fine. Five o'clock, my chambers. Don't be late."  

 

Harry watched him walk away, a huge smile threatening to break him apart.

 

‑‑‑‑

 

The smile dropped off immediately from his face at the look on his godfather's. No need to ask how much he'd seen. No sense in saying it really wasn't what he thought. Harry sucked in a breath and closed his eyes.

 

(A month earlier)

 

_Let your intended know he's appreciated. Send him flowers, send him chocolates, small tokens of your love in unique wrappings. Don't be chintzy, like all first impressions the opening gambit is the most important, it establishes the flow and feel of future relations. Since your intended already knows you, or knows of you for the more shy of you out there, its all the more necessary to present yourself in a different light. Be the romantic, be sweet..._

 

"...be appreciative, make your interest known," a voice was saying somewhere close by.

 

Harry groaned and rolled over, thrashed out with a blind arm and connected with muscle. "Too loud," he muttered into a pillow. "Quiet, Siri."

 

"Harry, what in the world is this? I thought you were researching applied divination, what has this got to do with that?"

 

"What's what got to‑‑‑"   He stopped, the words dissolving on his tongue, cut short by horror. No. No. Nonononono. Sirius wasn't reading what he thought he was... was he? Was He?

 

 

"What are you doing?" Impending doom impended closer. Harry was a snitch right before the catch, a pig right before the slaughter, a ...other suitable analogy about something horrified and near the end of its line. He'd never live this down.

 

Harry slowly raised his head and met the laughing eyes of his godfather. "What are you doing, Sirius."

 

"Hoping very hard you didn't actually buy this ...this...interesting piece of 'literature.' Tell me you aren't following its advice, Harry, please tell me at least that." Sirius snorted. "Just look at these chapter titles, 'Use some honey to catch your bee,' 'A little spice makes everything nice'? Are you baking a cake or going out on a date, Harry?"

 

Harry desperately made a grab at it, Sirius wiggled away, bounced up from the bed and danced backwards, still flipping through the thing.

 

"Good Lord, have you read this section yet? ‘Winning by Intrigue'?"

 

Actually, no, he hadn't. He wasn't sure he wanted to either by the tone of Black's voice, the thick layer of pure amusement.

 

"You've got to read this."

 

Sirius lobbied the book back to Harry, tapping twice at the intended section.

 

_This one's important, prospective lovers, pay attention! To your potential mate you are like a fine wine, the longer you're kept on the shelf the more they want you. In order to get to the final 'I do' you'd better be prepared to say some major 'I don'ts'. Which means..._

 

No. That couldn't be right. Harry read it again. Surely she couldn't mean...

Yes, yes that was right, no sex. No sex? He reread a third time. The words stayed the same. No sex.

Which really shouldn't have been a problem seeing as there was no sex now, but...

No sex?

 

"I hadn't read that yet," Harry admitted after the fourth time, hope that Sirius would just go away and let him die quietly in embarrassment finally giving out. "But it...sounds reasonable." Swallow, choke, bury head under pillow.

 

 

Sirius came back to the bed and sat, picked up the horror in question and said into its pink‑tinted pages ‑ with really not too much chuckle in his voice, "I'm not an expert on these things, Harry, but aren't you supposed to be yourself? Wooing is all well and good, but not when you're only playing a part." Considering pause. "You must really love this person to be this nervous. I'm happy for you, Harry. It's about time you found someone. Your dad found Lily when he was years younger than you and it was the greatest thing that happened in his life. I'd always hoped that‑well, anyway. I'm happy. I'm sure you picked well. You do know I'd support you whatever your decision right? I mean, I know I took awhile to come around to the ...gay...thing, but I'd support you. Really. So...when you're ready you can tell me who it is. If you want. When you want."

 

Harry came from under the sheets for a breath, rising just soon enough for the book to be tossed back.

 

"Anyway, I say be yourself and spend some time with this person, if …they're right for you they'll come around. You don't need this Celia Deal." Sirius still couldn’t quite bring himself to say ‘he’. Harry loved him even more for it, it was one thing to be loved when you were doing things the other person approved of, it was something else entirely when you weren’t.

 

Sirius rose, mildly tinted pink, and left the room. To his credit, only the occasional chuckle drifted back to Harry.

 

Harry stared forlornly at the book in his hands. Sirius couldn't have said any of this before the secret admirer stuff, could he?

 

He flopped back down and buried his head under the sheets again, thinking, at least Sirius supported his decision...such as it was.

 

(Present)

 

Of course...that was then, that was then.

 

This was now. Which was certainly not then. And judging by Sirius' expression then didn't apply to now. Then had very little to do with Now. Accepting whomever Harry loved did not include Severus Snape.

 

It wasn't until after Snape had disappeared around the corner that Sirius managed to get anything out, and it was a full three minutes after that before the choke turned into words. "Snivellus, Harry?" Sirius asked this almost desperately in a voice an octave too high. "Snivellus?" His voice rose another pitch on the last syllable.

 

Harry morosely thought it would have been amusing. If...you know, it wasn't his life.

 

"He really doesn't like being called that, you know," Harry replied calmly, straightening his robes and running a hand through irreparably tangled locks.

 

"Which is why I call him it," Sirius snapped back. He seemed to have recovered his wits and now drifted from terrible shock to abrupt anger. It was the suddenness of it, he should have told his godfather off the start. But it was so nice to have unconditional support.

 

"It doesn't matter anyway, Sirius, he'll never think of me like that. He barely tolerates my presence. He didn't even notice me tonight. We could never‑‑"

 

Harry was horrified to find his eyes stinging with the threat of tears.

 

 

So was Sirius, equally horrified.

 

"Oh, Harry, don't‑‑‑ now, stop that. It'll be all right, Harry. I‑it's not that bad. Don't do that. Snape's not that bad. He'll come around. Who wouldn't want you?"

 

Sirius’ worry switched blindingly into confusion‑‑ Harry didn’t know one could change emotions so quickly‑‑ at Harry’s sudden hysterical laughter. The expression only made him laugh harder. To think, all he needed to do was cry.

 

"Sirius, I need your help," he finally wailed, once laughter and tears had passed. It was a dignified wail.

 

Sirius’ shoulders slumped and a dramatic sigh pressed its way out. "You realize you're asking me to contribute to the happiness of Snivellus, do you not, Harry. This is wrong on all sorts of levels. Morally, the whole principle of it, as a rule. Mr. Padfoot is putting in an objection."

 

"Oh stop it. You want me to be happy, don't you?"

 

"That's a set up question. I won't answer it."

 

"Sirius, Please! I'm drowning here, sinking, dying, failing miserably. I need your help."

 

"What about your ...guidebook."

 

"Take the smirk off your face, Sirius Black. Besides, the book isn't working as well as it should, I need you as well."

 

“I don’t know what you expect me to say, Harry. I don’t know anything about Sni—Snape. I’ve never even liked the man, you know that, what could I possibl‑‑. Don’t you dare start that again. Don’t. Fine! I guess” long long pause, “be honest. He might appreciate that. You know, in others. And, well, if you give him half a chance he'll reason it all away and then he'll run. He’s been doing it all his life in one way or another. And I doubt you'll get a second chance, he's very good at getting away. That’s all I can tell you. Now will you please let me forget, at least for today, that we ever had this conversation?”

 

Harry smiled and agreed.

 

 

***+++***

 

The door opened and then shut in that particular not quite slamming, half‑hesitant half‑confident manner that only Harry had perfected. Sirius put aside the novel he was reading, reluctantly. Harry'd had his first date with‑with‑he couldn't say it. He knew Harry would want to discuss it, probably would be brimming over with puppy‑proportion eagerness, all deep wet eyes and figurative wagging tail. And it was nice to see his godson so happy, it was, it really was...but did it have to be because of Snape? Snape of all people?

 

Sirius knew he'd done some pretty dreadful things in his life, he was a horrible child and even worse teenager, but he'd hoped Azkaban and the subsequent terror after which had alleviated him of further punishment. Checks and balances and all that. Apparently not. The one person in all the world that mattered to him, and therefore couldn't be cut out of his life, had fallen for a Snape. A Snape!

 

"How'd it g‑That well, huh?"

 

One look at Harry's face was all it took. Harry kicked off his trainers halfway across the room, shoved his way past Sirius and flopped down beside him.

 

"Severus is allergic to peanuts, milk, and oysters. Guess what was on the menu as the ultimate in romantic meals?"

 

"Something requiring peanuts, milk, and oysters," Sirius deadpanned, limiting, with a supreme effort on his part, the extent of his smile to just a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

 

"He spent the entire night in the infirmary. It was awful. He swelled up like a pucker fish, Sirius. Projectile vomiting as a first date ‑ Sirius‑Sirius! Don't you dare laugh!”

 

The warning came too late, Sirius had already collapsed with laughter.

 

Harry sighed and sunk a little further into the sofa. Tomorrow he'd have to find a way to apologize. He just hoped he hadn't completely bollixed everything up. If Snape refused to work with him then his romantic life ‑ and all future chances at potential future mind‑numbing bliss, according to Celia Deal ‑‑ was at stake.

 

***+++***

 

"Let me make it up to you."

 

Famous last words. One step sideways from, "don't worry, I've learned my lesson."

 

Snape knew better than to believe such things, and even if he hadn't he'd spent far too long, regrettably, in Harry Potter's presence to believe that wide‑eyed innocent smile. If he could speak he'd hex the boy, and he wouldn't feel bad about it. Seven years of habitual protection and Albus' disapproving sigh be damned.

 

"That looks nasty, do you want me to do anything? Likefluff the pillows, or anything?”

 

If his arms didn't feeling like lead weights glued to his sides, he'd throttle him. As it was, he had to settle for a glare. A very foreboding glare if nothing else, while hoping the brat left. Soon.

 

Which didn’t seem to be happening. He needed a stronger glare.

 

Potter visited frequently, hour upon the hour like clockwork, fussing, fluffing pillows, chatting amiably and ignoring Snape’s scowls.

 

One night in the hospital wing, one day resting in his chambers, and Pomfrey finally pronounced him suitably cured. Potter still came. This time every Friday like clockwork, smiling, flitting about, gossiping, and ignoring Snape’s acrid comments like a professional. He should be, he’d been doing it since he was eleven.

 

Snape never quite got around to kicking him out. He convinced himself it was only so he didn’t devote an unhealthy amount of time towards the stalker.

 

Then, one day, expressly without his permission, something inside him reluctantly decided it no longer wanted Potter to leave. It actually liked his company. It liked Potter’s running commentary, his return barbs, his mock annoyance. It seemed somewhere between graduation and this latest return visit, Potter had learned a sense of humor.

 

And more often than not Snape had to hide a genuine smile by turning it into a smirk at the last moment‑‑ edged with more amusement than he'd willingly let anyone, let alone Potter, see perhaps, but it was the best he could manage on short notice.

 

It'd been so long since he'd had this. Someone to talk to. Someone who could take his snark without throwing up defensive shields, someone who could bite back without it seeming a threat. He wasn't sure if he'd ever had that, really. Well...Albus could, but ...Albus was Albus.

 

Then something even worse happened than liking Potter. He realized the boy was no longer a boy.

 

The boy was a man now, grown into the ripe bloom of young adulthood right before Snape's eyes; with the mind of a man, the courage of one, the conviction of one. Harry Potter was no longer that insolent eleven year old with the wide eyes that narrowed in distrust when turned his way, since the first moment their eyes locked and Snape had instigated a tracking charm.

 

No, now he was an insolent twenty‑three year old with wide eyes that narrowed in amused suspicion. Snape snorted to himself and Harry looked up with such a puzzled expression and that same gaze which spoke of wanting to join in on the joke, yet not entirely sure what the joke was, that Snape couldn't keep the smile which teased his mouth from escaping.

 

"What," Harry queried, squirming a bit under Snape's intense scrutiny.

 

Severus found himself leaning closer towards Harry, just a little, his body craving the enticing heat of the other. If he breathed in he’d be surrounded by Potter, wrapped in the warm scent of sandalwood and something else he couldn’t name but reminded him of baby powder mixed with ginger.

 

 

"What," Harry asked again breathless.

 

Just a little closer surely couldn’t hurt. Potter’s lashes fluttered so nicely.

 

The clock struck seven, announced it with a sharp buzzing and a ‘Time to prepare for lessons, Severus!’

 

Snape pulled back sharply, eyes wide and as close to horrified as he’d been in the last five years. He’d almost kissed Potter!

 

He stood, nearly knocking over study table, and fle—retreated to his room. “Potter, I think its time for you to go, I’ve lessons to prepare.”

 

***+++***

 

They almost kissed. Harry was positive about that. They very almost kissed, and then that idiot clock had to start squawking.

 

But! They’d almost kissed. Which meant Snape had, however briefly, wanted to. Which meant this wasn’t a lost cause. Which meantit could happen again!

 

Harry was floating on that cloud of nearly eternal bliss Celia Deal spoke of. He was assured that soon it would be eternally eternal bliss. First he had to leave more presents, get Snape’s interest back up to peak. Maybe provide a few hints this time so Snape wouldn’t fall in love with an imaginary figure. He’d decided he’d leave the gift in Snape’s office, a place impenetrable by owl. He’d have to then realize it was someone with access to the castle, and thereby realize it was someone close, and thereby realize eventually, that it was Harry. Whereupon Severus would fall into his arms with a smi‑‑‑

 

Okay, whereupon Snape maybe wouldn’t kill him and eventually they’d get around to the eternal mind‑numbing bliss.

 

He’d been preparing to leave when ‘Impending Doom’ impended again.

 

Snape walked in.

 

They both froze. This wasn’t in the plan, Celia, Harry frantically—and silently—screamed. What do I do now? Was there a chapter on how to avoid decapitation by an enraged lover‑to‑be? Maybe, “turn your lemons into lemonade, add a little sugar to the decapitation.”

 

Snape’s eyes traveled from Harry to the desk, where a distinctly unsubtle pack of pink candy hearts were quietly humming “You really got a hold on me”.

 

"What the bloody hell do you think you are doing,” Snape hissed. “And why are you doing it here?"

 

 

Harry’s tongue was as frozen as the rest of him.

 

Behind him the hearts had jumped to chorus: “Whoooaa you do me badly, I love you madly, You really got a hold on me.”

 

Snape’s eyes widened, then narrowed. Efforts for glare improvement gained speed that day, Snape had enough for a patent. Harry no longer had need for hints.

 

"It was you?! You sent me those things. You’re the stalker!"

 

Stalker?

 

No time to ask, even if his tongue wasn’t glued to the roof of his mouth. Harry was slammed backwards into a high stone mortar desk, his hips colliding painfully against the edge and ground into it by Snape's heavy weight. If he hadn't been bracing himself for it, Harry would not have been able to catch the scream before it fell from his lips.

 

"Do you think this a game, boy?"

 

"No game, Severus."

 

"Stop calling me that! You’ve no right!"

 

“You didn’t mind so much yesterd‑‑”

 

Snape lifted him forward and then shoved him back harder, all the air was effectively expelled from Harry’s lungs.

 

"I'm not afraid," Harry enunciated steadily, once breath came back, "you don't scare me."

 

Snape's eyes flared, darkened coal black with fire pits. "More the fool you." He shifted his body until the small space that had separated them was crushed, his thigh pressing between them like a reminder and his fingers claws upon Harry's wrists.

 

Harry sucked in a breath between clenched teeth and pressed back against the pain, visualized a solid ball of it and swung it away. If he let this go now, he'd never get a second chance. Unacceptable in all forms. Determination faltered a bit when Snape used his forearm to lock across Harry's throat. He didn’t press down though, Harry did notice that.

 

"And liar," Snape mocked cruelly. "Infant liar."

 

"You're many things as well, Severus," Harry said calmly, feeling the muscles in Snape’s forearm flex against his throat, "most depend upon situation. Now, for instance, you're a cowardly prig, but I've never confused what you are on an ephemeral plane for who you are as a person. Or at least I haven't since I was sixteen."

 

“Cowardly Coward,” Snape spluttered, his mouth a wide ‘o’ “What the hell are you talking about? You’re the stalker! You’re the one who’s been--I’ve no need of your pranks.”

 

“I‑it wasn’t a prank. I waswooing you.”

 

“Wooing me?” The edge pressed harder into the base of Harry’s spine as Snape’s body forced his further backwards. “You were trying to woo me?”

 

The way Snape said it, Harry was trying to commit an evil comparable to dropping whimpering puppies into a vat of boiling acid.

 

“I’ll show you wooing, boy.” The way that was said, it might not be pleasant.

 

Instant erection. That couldn’t be a healthy response.

 

Harry gasped, continued it through his nostrils since his mouth was busy being crushed by Snape’s. A tongue slid wetly into Harry’s mouth, over his teeth, dueled and tangled around his own. Harry moaned happily and went limp, his eyes rolled back into his head. God he loved forceful Snape. Almost as good as non‑evilly snarky Snape.

 

Before he could properly get into the kiss, before hyperventilation set in, Snape tore his mouth away and ran the flat of his palms up Harry’s chest. Up beneath his robes, between his shirt, touching skin. God.

 

“Touch me,” Snape ordered thickly.

 

Harry tried to obey. He really did. But he was shivering too hard to control his hands; numb fingers slid ineffectively off metal clasps and Snape brushed them away impatiently. It had been too long, foreplay was out of the question, thankfully it didn't seem Snape was interested in that either.

 

A leg inserted itself between his thighs, Harry promptly let them fall open, gurgling happily and pulling Snape back towards him.

 

Eternal bliss was approaching. Harry could feel it coming. Then there was a flurry of moment. A growled, "Get off him!" And all his dreams were shattered abruptly.

 

Sirius Black lay tangled with Harry’s almost‑not‑quite‑but‑damn‑near‑close lover. Harry braced himself on the desk, watched as Snape flipped Sirius over, glared at Harry once, then stood. Fixing his clothes. No. No no no.  

 

"Bad dog," Snapped hissed, rasping harsh dry amusement. "Heel."

Then he was gone. Gone. All gone.

 

Harry slumped, dropped to his knees lifelessly. No. He was so close.

 

A hand stopped Harry from bashing his head into the stone desk behind him repetitively.

 

Not the hand Harry’d wanted. He glared at his godfather, removed the hand, and returned to pointless bashing.

 

 

"Sorry, Harry," Sirius sheepishly apologized from under a dark fall of hair, "reflex reaction. I forgot that you probably wanted Snape to be on you." He shuddered, his eyes crossing a little. “Why you would want to, I don’tbut sorry.”

 

Harry groaned in response and kept bashing. He’d figure this out later. Celia would know what to do. He’d figure it out. Once he got over the urge to kill Sirius. Slowly.

 

***+++***

 

_Went a little overboard, did you? You and your dream lover have a disagreement? Don't be sad for too long, we all have these little set‑backs. But now that the altercation is through, it’s time to be the bigger man and hand over your pride. What is pride after all, in the face of true love? Are you ready for a 'sorry' like no other? Make your man feel special again with a love ballad._

 

Harry scoffed and shoved the book aside. He was definitely not doing that. Ever. He'd jump off Gryffindor tower without a broom sooner than humiliate himself like that. Not even Snape was worth...

 

Fingers drumming madly against table‑top, Harry bit his lip thinking.

 

Surely there had to be another way. He probably wouldn't even be here if he had just obeyed the no sex rule. Could what they did even count as sex? Who thought of that rule anyway? It was stupid. So just...

 

He wasn't singing to Snape. He couldn't sing. The man would never forgive him if he inadvertently caused him to go deaf, singing wasn't an option. At all.  

 

Fuck. He’d do it in the morning. After breakfast.

 

 

***+++***

 

*Crash*

 

A glass, formerly protector of valuable scotch, went hurtling through the air and landed none to gently at the base of a wall.

 

*Crash*

 

Another sailed after it and didn’t bounce.

 

Not a prank he said. I was trying to woo you, he said. Liar.

How did he ever let himself believe the m—the boy was anything other than a sneaking little liar? How could he have let himself get so carried away that he’d forget something like‑‑‑

 

 

He was a Potter, for gods’ sake. A Potter!

 

Snape whirled and aimed at his fireplace. A glass joined its brethren in a death of crystal shards.

 

How could he have ever imagined it was anything serious? Potter was an at—a marginally attractive young man. Twenty‑three years old, young, best to remember that. What would he want with his ‘greasy, disgusting’ former Potions instructor? A man nearly double his age, of course it was a prank.

 

But Potter’s breath had hitched when they’d almost kissed that time. And then again when they actually had last night. God, was it just last night? And for a moment he’d thought that maybe

 

The bottle followed the swell of broken glasses. Luckily no liquid remained in it, no, it was all inside one Severus Snape. It was really too early for liquor and he was all alone in his rooms. Snape had all the signs of Alcoholism. He’d give a shit later.

 

*Crash*

 

He’d be drunk if he wasn’t gliding high on potent rage.

 

*Crash*

 

The pounding of his heart suddenly grew louder, chorused by a shouting in his head. Which suspiciously sounded like Potter calling his name.

 

No, no, wait, it was his name.

 

And, oh, it was Potter as well. Come to gloat most likely. Just like his father. The whole family deserved bad things. There was too much liquor bubbling around inside him for elaboration.

 

*Bang Bang Bang*

 

"Severus! Will you please open the door? Severus!"

 

*Bang*

 

Snape snorted to himself and echoed the bang with another crash. Topped it with still another. He was running out of glasses. Bugger.

 

Maybe he needed to try this with Potter’s head as a target. Still better, Potter’s head as the missile.

 

He was chuckling to himself at the image when the crooning, there was really no other word for that horrendous noise, began.

 

 

"It's all because of you

 

"I'm feeling sad and blue

 

"You went away, now my life is just a rainy day

 

"And I love you so

 

"How much you'll never know, you've gone away and‑‑"

 

Oh no. Oh no no. This had to be stopped. Snape slammed open the door, glared randomly at the odd brave Slytherin who couldn’t resist coming to look. The children disappeared. Ha! The glare still worked, at least on some people. One problem left.

 

“What is wrong with you," Snape hissed. "You idiot, you bloody inconsiderate idiot."

 

"I'm trying to apologize."

 

"You're making a fool out of yourself, Potter, and me by way of association. I demand you cease now. First those hideous little trinkets, now a serenade in the halls? Have you lost what little sense you ever possessed?"

 

"Wait! Wait‑‑you mean you didn't like the gifts? I knew you’d be upset that you didn’t know who was sending them but I really thought you’d like them. Do you know how long it took to find stationery with Slytherin’s seal? Do you have any idea? It took forever for most of those gifts, I can’t believe you didn’t like them."

 

Snape gaped at him for a long moment, his normally pale skin flushed rose‑red and getting redder by the moment. "Didn't like them? Didn't like them?!"

 

"According to, well, it doesn't matter according to who but I really put effort into choosing them, I thought you'd like‑‑‑"

 

Harry suddenly found himself talking to the other side of a shut door.

 

That actually went better than expected.

 

Harry contemplated returning to banging. Maybe back to the song

It wasn’t as if he could embarrass himself further. The door opened again.

 

"Not that this changes a thing, but to alleviate my own morbid curiosity, just who have you been speaking to about this ...disgusting lack of judgment on your part, Potter?"

 

"Trelawney," Harry mumbled, blushing hard. If he wasn't careful it'd be reds and pinks forever. Which could be preferable to blues and grays ‑ oxygen deprivation, you know. Snape looked ready to strangle him, if the rhythmic clenching of his fists was anything to go by.

 

"Trelawney!" Snape vibrated with anger, tempered only, Harry imagined, by incredulity. "That nitwit? That flighty little fraud? You've been speaking to Trelawney?!"

 

The door slammed shut again before Harry got further than an opened mouth.

Then opened before Harry got a chance to even think about what to do next.

 

"You're not getting away with this,” Snape sputtered, “not this time, Potter." The words pulled their way out his mouth on a fresh wave of bitter acid. He grabbed Potter by the wrist and hauled him full body across the hall, into his room.

 

Harry wasn’t so naive to believe this was an improvement. Snape probably didn’t want witnesses to Harry’s murder.

 

He was just about to comment on the amount of shattered glass surrounding Snape’s fireplace when a handful of floo powder was flung into it and Harry was similarly propelled forward.

 

A shout of “Dumbledore’s office” reinforced Harry’s theory with modifications. He wasn’t going to be decapitated, he was going to be embarrassed to death.

 

‑‑‑

 

"He's the stalker, Albus," Snape said by way of greeting. "It's been him all along. I should have known, it's always Potter. I demand you expel him immediately."

 

To Dumbledore's credit there was a flash of surprise, though, in Harry's estimation, it melted far too quickly back to genial interest. The man wasn't human. Of course, it could be argued that Harry was simply in an unforgiving sort of mood; his whole face felt hot with humiliation.

 

"Severus, I'm afraid I've no power to do any such thing, Harry's no longer a student at Hogwarts." Dumbledore's tone was perfectly even but the usual sparkle of amusement that resided in his eyes was dancing feverishly.

 

Snape would not be subdued. "Fine, I'll settle for detention, that's what you always fall back on anyway. Do it now while the anger's fresh. Something ghastly, with Filch perhaps. He can't be allowed to get away with this."

 

"Severus," Dumbledore began calmly while Harry had visions of third year‑‑ a screaming Snape railing loudly against the injustice of a world dedicated to Potter‑worship; visions of fourth and fifth year ‑ a livid Snape snapping at anything in his path, implying with every breath that blatant favoritism was bestowed upon one Harry Potter; visions of sixth and seventh year ‑ a furious Snape, flushed bright red with heated anger rushing off to Dumbledore to expound upon the many and various reasons why Harry Potter was not fit to _live_ much less attend Hogwarts along with the other more tolerable members of his particular species, i.e. disobedient whiny brats.

 

 

"Wait, Headmaster. I'll do it, I'll take a detention. Really."  

 

The man didn't even have the decency to pretend to be shocked, not even a flicker of surprise. Inhuman old geezer.

 

"On one condition," he added, "I serve it with either Hagrid or Severus. I really don't need to give Filch a license to torture me."  

 

Dumbledore inclined his head in Snape's direction, silently asking if this was agreeable.

 

Snape's scowl grew deeper. "He serves it with me, I don't trust that oaf of a gamekeeper to give him a suitable punishment."

 

"That's set then. I'm sure you'll punish Harry just fine, Severus."

 

Harry would not react to the innuendo in that sentence. He wouldn't. The man was an inhuman bastard, who looked far too innocent for that sentence to have been anything but, which was a whole other level of disturbing. Dumbledore had no business with innuendo.

 

"Tonight at six perhaps. Good with you, Harry? Excellent. Anything else?"

 

Snape glared a little harder, then, with an impressive swirl of his robes, marched out without a word further.

 

Harry really had to learn how to do that.

 

‑‑‑

 

For Snape classes that day were unbearable. The children were too loud, horribly disruptive ‑‑ two cauldrons exploded while his back was turned, another melted. He was in no mood for company by the day's end. All he wanted was to resign himself of another day, relax in his study with a bottle of malt and a good book and forget the rest of humanity, particular the younger members, existed.

He would have too, then he remembered Potter.

 

Six p.m. sharp with a scowl Snape stomped into his classroom expecting (hoping for) emptiness, instead he was greeted with the unwelcome sight of Harry Potter's still form bent partially over his worktable, sifting through the dozens of used vials and beakers and attempting to organize them, and felt the equally unwelcome burgeoning swell of panic rise. Though it was preferable over the other burgeoning swell that was rising. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

 

Potter shifted further forward, the material of his trousers stretching over the full curves of his rear.

 

Fuck.

 

Where were the boy’s robes? Couldn’t Potter follow the rules just once? For one bloody time in his life.

 

 

I am Severus Snape, he reminded himself. Former Death Eater. Member of Voldemort‑‑ Lord of the giant reptiles and horrors beyond comprehension‑‑ the brute's inner circle. I can bottle death, stopper it, for fuck's sake. I will not be intimidated by a whelp of a boy whose idea of a clever chat up line is 'fancy a fuck' and takes advice from a mentally deranged soothsayer, whom, might I add, has only managed to accurately sooth two sayings in her entire career. I will not be intimidated.

 

He cleared his throat noisily and stomped into the room. Potter jumped, startled. Snape almost felt better, but something else jumped along with Potter at the distinctly… ‘debauchable’ picture Potter made standing there with locks curling over his neck, and it ruined the satisfaction of the moment.

 

"Clean up that mess," Snape ordered, tossing a pouch at Harry without looking to see if it was caught, "if you have to be here, you might as well do something useful."

 

‑‑‑

 

Harry grit his teeth together and nodded, catching the bag in one hand, too close to the edge to remind Snape that this entire thing was his idea to begin with; he would have been perfectly fine without the humiliation of a week's detention...five years after graduation.

 

_Be kind and understanding with your dream man, never yell or call names. Be patient. Be loving. Be tactful!_

 

"Patient, loving, tactful," Harry reminded himself underneath his breath. "You care for him deeply, killing him will only lead to depression." Harry swept an armful of empty vials into the pouch, getting a perverse sort of joy from hearing the glass clink together and imagining Snape's precious bottles shattered into dozens of tiny shards. That would teach him. "You would regret it," he continued while not so carefully shoving the armload into different drawers, "maybe not right away, but eventually you would regret it. He loves you back, he just can't help being a contrary wanker...no, no, no name calling. Patient, loving, tactful."

 

"What are you mumbling, Potter," Snape demanded sharply.

 

"Nothing," Harry sighed, "nothing at all."

 

Snape provided a suspicious look at those words, but said nothing in reply and all was quiet the remainder of the time.

 

‑‑‑

 

Three uncomfortable hours later...

 

 

"That's done," Potter announced unnecessarily, wiping ash stained hands on his thighs and standing in a smooth motion he could not have achieved so naturally even two years prior. The boy...man...irritant was covered in dust from head to toe, from the tip of his mop of shaggy hair to the hem of his too long robes – which he had placed back on sometime after the incident with the permanent ink but before the incident with the spontaneously erupting cauldron which was by far Snape’s favorite part of the evening.

 

"I guess I'll be off now."

 

"Be off then."

 

Potter bit his lower lip, did a half turn, turned back, and sucked in a breath. Lord, the child was going to be stalwart.

 

"Shall I see you on Friday," Potter asked in what appeared to be one breath.

 

"No, you shall most certainly not. Get this through your head, Potter," Snape replied with a malicious joy, he'd been waiting for the opportunity to do this for weeks now, longer, "the less I have to do with you, the better."

 

Snape braced himself for another proposition. Another inappropriate comment. Twenty barbs ran through his head, and he sifted through them almost eagerly, stomach clenching anticipation drying his mouth. But Harry only nodded once, gathered up his things, and bid him goodnight.

Snape watched the door close definitively behind the young man in relief...that felt suspiciously like disappointment.

 

***+++***

 

Friday rolled around. Four days since he'd found out the identity of his stalker, three days since he'd last communicated with Potter in any fashion.

 

It began as an unusually bearable day. He wouldn't classify it as 'good,' there was always some deficiency he could point out that ruined it, but it was...tolerable. The sun rose in a glorious blaze of warm light, Albus' good morning was suitably subdued, the halls were peaceful. Trelawney was taken care of ‑‑and what a beautiful piece of revenge that was.

 

He was almost content again.

 

Until he caught sight of the morning owls and realized he was looking for a package, caught sight of Potter and realized he was looking forward to his weekly visit. His face clouded over, the sun became too bright, Albus was too cheerful, the halls were too silent.

 

Content turned abruptly into bitter hatred.

 

‑‑‑

 

Friday had rolled around again. It would have been the ninth officially unofficial date. Harry should have been floating on a cloud of happiness. The ninth date was one date away from an officially unofficial announcement of love and eternal commitment ‑ according to Celia Deal, anyway. Instead, he spent it avoiding Trelawney's hurt stares...what that was about was anyone's guess. Perhaps she had publicly predicted his death for the ...zillionth time and was disappointed when he hadn't keeled over. Every so often she'd get in those moods. Although, Snape did look smugger than usual. He might have had something to do with it. Harry'd have to ask him la...

 

Oh. Right. They weren't speaking.

 

Stupid Snape. Harry frowned into his breakfast plate. The man deliberately made everything harder than it had to be. Deliberately. They could both have been happy, riding waves of eternal bliss. Stupid contrary bastard. Harry stabbed a link of sausage.

 

Look at him, over there calmly chewing away at his eggs. Mmm, what a delicious egg. How wonderful of an egg. I bet Potter doesn't have such a spectacular example of an egg.

 

Nasty, evil, irritating....Snivellus!

 

God, he loved him. He couldn't do this right now.

 

Harry stood abruptly, pushing away his plate, and fled ‑ in a dignifying, I‑don't‑care‑what‑you‑think‑evil‑git‑Snape, way. Of course.

 

Evil‑contrary‑git‑Snape contrarily followed him.

 

Harry stopped in the hallway to the entrance of the Great Hall and waited for the man to catch up. Think good thoughts, he told himself. Think good thoughts and brace yourself.  

 

Good advice. Snape came after him with oceans of acidic accusation, and wildly gesticulating limbs.

 

"So hard up, were you," Snape continued ranting, his hands like whirling dervishes now, "that you had to resort to this‑this‑this disgraceful‑‑"

 

Be patient. Be loving. Be tactful!

 

Harry clenched his jaw and counted to ten. In Latin, Spanish (the extent of his fluency in the language), Centaur, Parseltongue, English, and then all over again...

 

Backwards.

 

Be patient. Be loving. Be tactful!

 

Be patient...

 

"You know I never meant it to be a one‑off, Snape," Harry interrupted before Snape expounded upon just exactly how Harry was nothing better than a hormonally dictated rutting cat in heat, "up against a wall in a darkened corridor, you know that so just...just..." Harry stuttered, helplessly searching for tact beneath rage, "stop being an insensitive fuckwit." There. Tactful enough.

 

"What would you have me be," Snape sneered, "a love‑sick child fawning all over you and spouting romantic dribble between desperate shags? Or perhaps you'd prefer if I'd play the part of twelve‑year old damsel in distress to your fairy tale prince? I'm a grown man, Potter. I've neither time nor patience for these ridiculous games."

 

He glared extensively, slammed the book shut forcefully on the subject – metaphorically speaking--, turned on heel.

 

_...If you give him half a chance he'll reason it all away and then he'll run. And I doubt you'll get a second chance, he's very good at getting away._

 

"No!" The word surprised them both, halting Snape mid‑stride. "No," Harry repeated more softly, edging in front to block his way before Snape overcame his surprise.

 

"I won't let you do this, I won't let you push me away and have me think everything that passed between us was a lie." He wanted to say that. He really did but...

 

_One of the biggest mistakes new lovers make is admitting to love too quickly. There's always long enough for that, don't rush into anything before your itchy fingers scare away the final prize._

 

"We could be good together, Severus. There’s something between us, you felt it. I felt it," Harry said instead, "The heat between us…I didn't imagine that."

 

His words had the opposite reaction from what he hoped. Snape's expression slammed closed with the finality of the last Unforgivable.

 

"Move, Potter."

 

"Why are you doing this? Why are you pushing me away?"

 

"Get out of my way."

 

Harry opened his mouth to refute, shut it just as quickly at the cold look Snape leveled at him. Now wasn't the right time, everything he'd read said to wait for the right time.

 

Wait for the right time. Snape stomped his way past him; Harry's heart sped up 'he's getting away! He's getting away, do something!'

 

Oh fuck the right time.

 

 

"I know what you're doing," Harry called. Pause. Snape halted with the flat of his palm pressed against the swinging door.

 

Sweetly, firmly, nervous as all hell. "You might as well stop, my feelings aren't going to change."

 

"What do you want from me," Snape roared, " What do you want from me!"

 

Harry opened his mouth to respond when suddenly‑‑ with three long strides Snape was in front of him‑‑ a hand was slapped over it.

 

"If you say 'just you', Potter, by all that is holy I will thump you. I'll hand you over to Filch and allow the man for once to have his way and string you up by your ankles until all of that woman's romantic gibberish has drained from your maudlin little head. Merlin, Circe, and the seven stars, if you respond with more melodramatic trash I will drop you where you stand and all manner of respect for you, little such as it is, you have managed to dredge out of me shall be irrevocably lost."

 

Harry considered prying the hand away from his mouth, but ...it felt good there. Severus touching him, so close that the warm breath from each word slowly caressed his skin, so close that Harry could feel the heat from his body like a presence.

 

Harry opened his mouth and extended his tongue, slid it between Snape's fingers in a smooth glide.

 

Snape jerked away at the first touch, as if Harry's tongue had branded instead of licked. He stared at the spot disbelieving, a scowl wavered on his face lacking its normal ferocity.

 

_Never demand anything, it's the surest way of driving your love off. Don't question his love for you, it'll only bring you off as needy. Remember, lovers, no one likes a nagging nelly!_

_..._

_There's always long enough for that..._

 

Harry savagely slammed down on the running monologue with a pleasant mental, "Fuck off". There was never long enough for that. Never. With a deep breath he did what he had wanted from the beginning. He was straightforward, he was forthright, he was daringly, stupidly, Gryffindor.

 

"Say you could love me," Harry said hoarsely, "that's what I want, Severus. I know it’s too much to hope that you already do, too early, but say you could, because, God, I think I’m falling in love with you."

 

Something on Severus' face relaxed, the scowl disappeared replaced with a look that on anyone else would be labeled happy, fond. If only there was a smile to go along with it.

Snape pulled Harry in, wrapped arms tightly around his waist and held him close. "I could love you," he said steadily. "Is that it then?"

 

 

Harry shook his head numbly, eyes wide and glazed over. All this time and ...he could have just...All this time and the answer was this? All this time and Harry could...

 

"Just one more thing, say it again."

 

"There is the distinct possibility that I might be capable of returning your feelings," Severus said in a lofty tone staring into Harry’s eyes. And then because, well, he might have to take it, and he might even like it, but he would always be a Snape and therefore he would never admit it, he added, "now cease fishing for compliments, Mr. Potter. Insecurity is neither an attractive nor a productive quality."

 

"Contrary wanker," Harry replied fondly, then shut him up with a kiss.

 

That grew and grew. Harry pulled back with a gasp, sucked in a lungful of air, then crushed his mouth over Snape's again. His efforts were wasted when a moment later Snape parted his legs pulling Harry closer, tongue tracing the roof of Harry's mouth, ground down in a slow rub that stroked the full length of Harry's trouser clad erection against Snape's own and Harry let go of all the oxygen he'd saved in a low, groin deep moan.

 

"Bed," Snape broke away long enough to growl.

 

A quick kiss on wet red lips, a grin, and a moan later, and Harry responded, "after you."

 

They fled to Snape’s chamberswith dignity.

 

‑‑‑‑

 

Once there, their progress towards the bedroom was hampered by groping hands and burning full body kisses. But they made it and for one glorious uninterrupted moment of time that, everything was perfect. It didn't last nearly long enough, but Harry suspected it never would be long enough.

 

Later, Harry reclining happily in Severus' arms, finally remembered the question he could now ask. "What'd you do to Trelawney, by the way, Severus? She was unusually silent at dinner and she kept shooting me these  looks."

"Wrong question, Harry," Snape smiled against his neck. Harry shivered hard and slid closer. "It's what you did to her."

 

"What?!"

 

Severus chuckled and cut off further inquiry with a breath‑stealing kiss. "Let's just say turnabout is fair play, Potter."

 

 

~~And vital feelings of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height

Her virgin bosom swell ~~

 

~~Fin~~

 

 

 


End file.
